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One hand is beneath her cheek,—that is soft and moist as a child's might be in innocent slumber,—the other is thrown above her head. She is exquisite in her abandon, but very pale, and her breath comes unevenly. "What are you doing here, Tim?" says Mona, bravely, calmly, "at this hour, and with—yes, do not seek to hide it from me—a gun! And you too, Carthy," peering into the darkness to where another man, less plucky than Ryan lies concealed. "Ah! you may well wish to shade your face, since it is evil you have in your heart this night." "To my forehead?" says Mona, puzzled; and then she glances at Geoffrey, remembering that this was one of the slight variations with which he adorned his tale..

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At this Mona, being a creature of impulse, grows once more pale and troubled. "Nay," she says, very sweetly and gravely, "you mistake me. I am glad to obey you. I shall not go to Ryan's house again." "Angry? no!" he says, recovering himself, as he notices the penitence on the face upraised to his. The momentous Friday comes at last, and about noon Mona and Geoffrey start for the Towers. They are not, perhaps, in the exuberant spirits that should be theirs, considering they are going to spend their Christmas in the bosom of their family,—at all events, of Geoffrey's family which naturally for the future she must acknowledge as hers. They are indeed not only silent, but desponding, and as they get out of the train at Greatham and enter the carriage sent by Sir Nicholas to meet them their hearts sink nearly into their boots, and for several minutes no words pass between them..